


Paying Respects: Arlington National Cemetery

by Callie4180



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, GridLOCK DC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 12:33:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4625505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callie4180/pseuds/Callie4180
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the 2015 GridLOCK DC zine. </p><p>Thanks to 221bJen and EnduringChill for the quick beta and input.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paying Respects: Arlington National Cemetery

It should have been silent. Sherlock had expected stillness, hush, reverence, but this place of remembrance seemed almost alive.

He had anticipated the gentle rolling hills, and the vibrant, nearly outrageous green of the lawns. He had visualised the uniform array of the gravestones, mute guardians of names and dates. What he hadn’t imagined was the vitality. Car doors slamming, children’s voices. Trees, so many trees, old and twisted, rustling in the hot breeze, alive and full of birds. The shadows and shade from the trees somehow made everything else seem brighter. The white of the markers fairly glowed in the daylight. There was so much life here. He could not resolve the dissonance. 

Sherlock straightened where he stood in the shade of one of the surprising trees, and refocused his attention. John Watson stood fifty yards and ten years away, at the foot of a grave. He stood in a brace of sunlight, staring at a marker, unblinking, lost in memory. 

John had hesitated to suggest this visit, though Sherlock knew it had occurred to him the moment this case came up. Soldiers with whom he had served rested here, and it was inevitable that he would want to pay his respects. Sherlock had immediately, enthusiastically approved and offered to keep him company, but withheld all other comment. This was wise; the two of them had a problematic history with cemeteries at best. 

Sherlock considered how different things could have been for them both. John’s wound had been severe; it was obvious from the scar. A flat tire on an ambulance, an overtired surgeon, penicillin missing from a supply cabinet, and he could have been lost. It could be John’s name on a white marker in the midst of too much green, across the ocean in a far different and heartbreakingly similar setting. But fate had been kind, in a twisted fashion. John had come home, damaged but alive. Sherlock might easily have never known him, but he was here, now, in this painfully bright place on a hot and humid day, paying respects to the memories of less fortunate friends.

Sherlock shifted his gaze to the gravestone with a sigh. He knew he was being selfish. He should have been thinking on those who had fallen, allies who had stood with his countrymen against common enemies. But all he could think of was John, the bravest man he had ever known.

In a minute, maybe two, John would finally nod, turn, and walk toward him. His pace would be slow and steady, with a slight hitch at first. He would walk up to Sherlock, and their eyes would meet. John would smile ruefully, and incline his head in the direction of the exit. Sherlock would want to ask if he was all right, to know what John was feeling at that moment, but he wouldn’t trust himself to find the words. So instead they would turn and walk toward the gates, moving with purpose, with certainty, grateful and together.


End file.
